


Apologize (Help Me Stumble Through It)

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Mind Your Manners [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Hank, Bottom!Hank, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is a Little Shit, Edging, Eventual Smut, Hair Pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Smutty tags don't apply to the first chapter, Suicidal thoughts (reference to in-game behaviors), Top Connor, Top!Connor, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 06:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16550372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “If you’re going to be bossing me around and grousing at me all day, you might as well call me Hank. It sounds less ridiculous than when you refer to me by my rank.” Hank’s attempt to reassert his authority based on his superior rank failed miserably. Connor all but beams at him and Hank has to stare hard at his shoes to avoid going blind by looking at the android’s goofy, smiling face.“Ok, Hank.”This was definitely a mistake.---Hank has feelings and he doesn't know what to do with them. Connor isn't having any of Hank's nonsense.





	1. Awkward Beginnings

The hug had been…good. Good, but disturbing. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Relief, at first. He was _relieved_ to see Connor alive and whole. But the good swiftly devolved into awkward so here they were, weeks later, orbiting around each other, careful never to edge too close.

Connor’s gravitational pull would be the death of him. He knew it in his bones.

So he pushed the feelings down and winter faded into spring. Feelings were, in his estimation, highly overrated. Why Connor wanted them was beyond him some days. At that thought, he shook his head, greying hair briefly obscuring his vision, as if he could jiggle Connor and feelings free from his mind like loose change.

He hears the coin zinging back and forth between Connor’s hands and grimaces. That damn coin. Apparently, even deviancy couldn’t change some things.

“Connor, can you stop it with the…the,” Hank waves his hands in the air as if the word he was looking for would fall out of the sky. Connor looks down at the coin dancing across his knuckles before pocketing it quietly.

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” He chirps in that over-eager tone. The one Hank now knew meant Connor was not at all sorry and largely doing it to be a little shit. Sure enough, Hank could see the smile tugging at Connor’s eyes. His mouth remained a firm line, but, after all this time, Hank knew most of Connor’s tells.

He exhales a long, put-upon sigh to let Connor know exactly how lucky he was that Hank was just _such_ a nice guy for putting up with his quirks. Connor, as always, ignores this.

Having had just about enough of the office for the day, Hank pushes away from his desk, “I’m calling it.” He had a day off tomorrow and he intended to spend most of it in a stupor on his couch watching old reruns.

“Lieutenant, there are still 15 minutes remaining on your shift…” At a dirty look from Hank, the words die in Connor’s mouth. He leveled a disapproving look at the man before saying. “Fine. I will see you in two days, eight hours, 36 minutes, and—,”

Hank cuts him off with a sharp gesture, “I am notoriously not on time, Connor. You can’t possibly know down to the minute when I will show up for work.” This was a lie. A few months ago, it wouldn’t have been. A few months ago, Hank was ready to let fate decide for him if the chamber would be empty or loaded, if he showed up for work or not. Hank had been ready to die, but then Connor “I like dogs” The Fucking Android Sent from Cyberlife changed that.

He would thank them personally if the lot of them weren’t all fucking terrible.

Now, Hank was always on time. Roughly on time at any rate. Maybe Connor did have it down to the minute, which makes him wonder, “Where do you go after work?”

Connor stares at him and Hank feels a seed of embarrassment blossom in his stomach. When the blank look persists, Hank continues the conversation himself, “Do not tell me you stay _here_.”

“I have nowhere else to go, Lieutenant.” He says it gently enough, but it felt like Connor had hit him. It wasn’t Connor’s intention, Hank knew it. There was no accusation in his tone, no implication that it was in any way Hank’s fault that Connor had no home and stayed at work 24/7. It was all Hank projecting his awkwardness around Connor. He knew he was the one being weird, that Connor had no expectations of him, and that it was his own damn conscience needling at him to cut it the fuck out and be normal already.

Whatever normal was between a middle-aged man and his android friend. Oh, brave new world.

The words come out without his permission, “Come with me.” Connor’s body appeared to glitch. It took Hank a moment to realize he had shocked the android. He had performed the equivalent of a full body jerk. As the moment continued to lengthen into horrible, bone-crushingly humiliating silence, Hank opted to fill the void with more of his stupid, stupid words, “I mean, you know, come hang out. At my place. It’s better than sitting at work all night doing nothing.”

“I don’t do _nothing_ ,” Connor said defensively,” I recalibrate my—,”

“Absolutely not. You are not spending all night playing with that stupid fucking coin.” Still, Connor hesitated. Was he that miserable of company? The self-doubt that had gone to sleep months before chose to awaken from its slumber with a vengeance. Of course, Connor wouldn’t want to come to his house. What did he have to offer him? Remember that time you found me passed out and suicidal? And why the fuck did you opt to give me a bath?

 _Shower_. It was a shower. And there was nothing slightly weird about it at all, shut the fuck up, thank you very much.

In the agonizing interim of Hank’s mental self-flagellation, Connor seemed to have made up his mind.

“Ok, Lieutenant.” Hank’s racing thoughts come to a halt as if they had run through tar. Before he can make his mouth cooperate to say actual words, Connor smirks, “I would very much like to see Sumo again.”

“That fucking dog,” Hank mutters under his breath, before continuing in a louder voice, “Fine. Whatever. Let’s go.” Connor followed him out to his car, where Hank immediately cranked up the radio to a volume that made conversation impossible. Maybe if he can’t talk to Connor, he won’t be able to stick his god damn foot down his throat.

That was great in theory, but they eventually arrived at his house and the car stereo was no longer a buffer between him and his big, fat mouth.

“Gotta go walk Sumo.” Not too bad. Nothing terrible about that.

“Oh, I’ll go with you.” Hank gives an easy shrug, but his insides do a slow roll. If he can’t handle basic off-the-clock conversation with Connor, why on earth did he invite him to his home? He supposed it had been a long time since he had actual friends. Friendship is still new for him, still difficult.

The walk turns out to be fine. Detroit was still cold this early in March, but it wasn’t the unbearable cold of winter. Hank’s breath puffed out in a fog while Connor’s did nothing. At first.

“What in the ever loving fuck are you doing?” Connor was emitting a fine hiss of steam from his mouth. It was the most bizarre thing the android had done to date—other than sticking every goddamned thing he could find into his mouth for analysis. That would never stop being weird.

“My systems are getting cold. I’m heating them back up, which creates steam. I have to let it out somehow. This seemed like the better option.”

“Better option? There’s more than one?” Hank isn’t sure he wants to know the answer to that.

“Oh several. My nose for example, or my ears. Another place, but that would look a great deal like flatulence.” Nope. Didn’t want to know the answer to that one.

“Cyberlife gave you an asshole?” It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He brings his hand up to his face as if he can snatch the words out of the sky before dropping it lamely by his side. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that. I’m—,” Hank chances a glance at Connor and found the android looking at him with humor painting every inch of his expression.

“No, Lieutenant, I do not have an _asshole_. There would not be any point. I do not create waste. I do, however, require maintenance. I have several access panels and a drainage system in place.” Hank pulls a sour face.

“Drainage system?” He asks weakly. Connor tilts his head, that piece of hair flopping out of place, before answering.

“You look ill, Lieutenant. Are you sure you want me to continue?” Hank wants to decline, but it seems rude not to understand the basics about his partner. What if he gets injured and Hank has to…to…fuck if he knew. That was the point of _this_ conversation apparently. Hank nods and waves at Connor to continue.

“If I am shot or if something is spilled during maintenance, I need to be able to drain the fluids from my body. Otherwise, they could damage my circuits over time. Really, Lieutenant, your vitals are not responding well to this discussion.” Hank’s heart is pounding in his ears and he isn’t sure why.

“S’fine. I want to understand.” Connor looks doubtful but continues.

“As I said, I have a drainage system. Since gravity dictates everything must fall, the drainage system is in a similar location to what you refer to as an _asshole_.” He says the word with distaste and his wrinkled expression helps pull Hank from something boarding terror to a feeling closer to amusement. Connor continues on, “I can open and close it on command. Anyway, it would look like flatulence.”

“By all means, continue belching steam instead, kid.” Hank chuckles but Connor’s face droops.

“I do _not_ belch.” He huffs defensively, which only makes Hank laugh more. Sumo ignores them entirely in favor of dropping a gigantic dog shit. It’s Connor’s turn to laugh at Hank’s grumpy face.

The conversation becomes easy after that and Hank wonders why he’s been weird toward Connor for months. Connor, who always puts up with Hank’s bullshit. Connor, who continues to care about Hank when the rest of his friends wrote him off long ago. Hank is an insufferable bastard, he knows it, but Connor stays. Hank wants to know why. But Hank is used to wanting, and he definitely doesn’t want to ruin the easy back and forth reestablished by conversations about android farts.

Hank snickers again. Connor peers at him accusingly before blurting out, “I don’t pass gas either, Lieutenant.”

Hank smiles, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.” He breaks out into full on laughter at the sullen expression that crosses Connor’s face. He smacks a large hand between Connor’s narrow shoulders before tossing him a wink.

Connor relaxes and understands. It takes him less time than it used to, but jokes are still hard for him to identify at first. Hank’s hand lingers on Connor’s back longer than necessary before he finally drops it. They make their way back to the house when Hank remembers in vivid clarity that his house is trashed. Connor hadn’t come in with him to get Sumo.

“Uh, I haven’t tidied up in a while so, um, ignore my mess.” He would say _the_ mess, but, really, who else could’ve made it? He fits the key into the lock and swings the door wide, letting Connor cross the threshold first.

***

Hank’s not entirely sure how, but he has a sneaking suspicion that the android conned him into letting him move into Hank’s house. There is absolutely no way Hank let it happen on purpose. None.

It started with Hank refusing to let Connor go back to the station that night.

_Hell, no. You’re not going back there to sit around doing nothing._

_Lieutenant, I will be doing nothing here as well once you go to sleep._

Hank remembers that much of the conversation, but then all of the blood in his body decided to surge into his ears drowning out whatever his auto-piloted brain decided to say. He did remember arguing something about needing distance from the workplace. It was a stupid argument. Hank was basically synonymous with the workplace, but Connor mercifully acquiesced. Probably because Hank’s vitals were going batshit crazy.

The next morning, Hank woke up and he had the first inklings of _this was a huge mistake_ because Connor was there in his living room, folding laundry.

“The fuck are you doing?” Connor didn’t even turn to look at him, his LED a solid yellow.

“The living conditions are unacceptable,” Hank tries to splutter a retort at that, but Connor plows through his attempt at a response, “Really, Lieutenant, you need to take better care of yourself. I washed your dishes and laundry. I also cleaned your bathroom for what I expect is the first time in years if ever.”

Un-fucking-believable. He was being scolded by Connor.

“I also made you some tea. I would’ve made breakfast, but your refrigerator consists of condiments, questionable cheese, and some kind of vegetable that is no longer identifiable.”

Hank barks out a laugh despite himself, “That’s it. You can leave now. Goodbye.” He says it with good humor to ensure Connor catches the joke, but the android was having none of it.

“We are going shopping.”

“Oh, come on. Connor, really—,” The android cuts him off again.

“Then we are going to clean your kitchen. I think there are aliens breeding in your coffee pot.” Hank watches the slow turn of yellow at Connor’s temple.

“Did you just make a new mission…to clean my house?” Connor, who has yet to stop folding laundry, lets out an artificial and unnecessary sigh.

“No, Lieutenant. I made it a priority to ensure your wellbeing.” Hank’s stomach flops and he feels blood threatening to flood his face. Connor had made a mission to _Take care of Hank_.

Choosing not to dwell on that for longer than necessary, Hank grabs his keys and starts for the door. Connor was on his feet and following when Hank offered, belatedly, “Hank.”

Connor tilts his head, an endearingly human movement, “What?”

“If you’re going to be bossing me around and grousing at me all day, you might as well call me Hank. It sounds less ridiculous than when you refer to me by my rank.” Hank’s attempt to reassert his authority based on his superior rank failed miserably. Connor all but beams at him and Hank has to stare hard at his shoes to avoid going blind by looking at the android’s goofy, smiling face.

“Ok, Hank.”

_This was definitely a mistake._

It’s a constant refrain in his mind as Connor plucks healthy food item after healthy food item from shelves and produce aisles.

“I don’t know how to make…whatever it is you’re getting ingredients for.” Connor makes a noncommittal hum at this and continues adding things to the cart.

“I do, Lieuten—Hank.” Great. His work partner was spending his entire day off with him, or so his behavior indicated. By the time Connor announces himself satisfied with the groceries, Hank is ready to call the entire thing off and force Connor to go back to the station.

He wouldn’t, of course, he wasn’t that much of a bastard these days. He still put on the façade for work, but he didn’t have it in him to be mean to Connor on purpose anymore.

Spending his day off doing chores was pushing his limit, though. After putting away the groceries, the laundry, and cleaning the coffee pot, Hank put his foot down.

“Connor, I am _not_ doing anything else today. I am going to sit on my couch and drink my beer and watch my stupid shows.” He sticks out his jaw like a petulant child expecting a reprimand. Instead, Connor looks around the home and nods.

“Of course, Hank.” _Like I need permission_ , flashes across Hank’s mind, but he lets it go. Connor was trying to help him. Far be it from him to lash out at the only person in the world who gave two fucks about his ass.

And so it went. Every evening after work, Connor would follow Hank to his car, they would go home, and Connor would try to force Hank to eat whatever healthy meal he found while scanning the internet. Hank resists mostly out of habit. The food is usually decent, but it isn’t the same as a greasy burger promising a sodium spike and possible clogged arteries.

There was still the small problem of Hank’s perpetual need to say embarrassing things. He tries to talk his way out of it, but Connor’s fifth night staying at his house proves to be the first of many undoings.

“Forget it.” Hank says flatly, hoping to navigate around his latest social blunder. Connor isn’t letting it go.

“Why do you want to know, Hank?” Connor is always like this. Makes Hank explain himself. Makes him lay bare every embarrassing reason for each idiotic question that came out of his stupid mouth.

“S’nothing. I was just…never mind.” _Why_ on earth had he asked him if he wanted a change of clothes? What purpose was there? It was bizarre, he supposed, to never change an outfit. It was the first thing Hank did when he got home. Comfy clothes, he called them.

He wanted to see Connor in something else. He didn’t know why; he had no reasonable explanation.

_You want to see him in your clothes._

Hank rams the heels of his palms into his eyeballs at that thought, as if he can scrub it away. Connor continues to watch him, LED circling yellow. Processing.

“It seems to be causing you distress, Hank. I would prefer it if you weren’t distressed.” At this Connor stands, and removes his jacket.

This was much, much worse.

Hank launches off the couch to his feet, “I’ll get you some clothes. Some…something.” He all but flees the room, heart hammering in his chest. He takes a lot longer than necessary to find some sweatpants and a t-shirt. Everything that is remotely Connor-sized was from his days at the academy. He hands them without a word to Connor, who takes them and begins to undress in the middle of the living room.

“For fuck’s sake, Connor. I have a bathroom.” Connor shrugs and walks shirtless to the hall bathroom. Hank’s mind began to race. Connor has nipples. Why the fuck does he have nipples? Skip right over the asshole, but go for the nipples? There is something seriously wrong with Cyberlife. And him, apparently.

Hank has to will himself to stop thinking about android nipples and non-existent sphincters. He would never be able to look Connor in the face again if something like _so how about those nipples_ came out of his mouth.

Connor walks out of the bathroom looking much better than Hank ever had in those clothes. Bastard. Connor smirks at him, as if reading his mind. Striking an awkward pose, he asks, “Better?” Hank opts to inspect his toenails before muttering an affirmation.

Why he continued to put himself in these situations was beyond him. He was a hard man with hard feelings that he had spent years successfully suppressing. It would seem his feelings begged to differ and were having a fit at his expense. Never in his life had he explained himself so often. Never let someone bully him into taking care of himself. Never cared to be cared for, really. After his sixth embarrassing comment of the day, he was beginning to think pretending he didn’t have emotions was the better option after all.

Yet, Connor stays, despite Hank’s often awkward attempts at conversation to learn more about Connor. Connor helps him navigate his way through uncomfortable discussions, some serious, some less so. He is pretty sure Connor is fucking with him on more than one occasion. He would later add a sticky note to his mirror reminding him to look up if androids can see through clothes with their scans after one particularly embarrassing exchange.

“Bullshit. There is zero way Cyberlife got away with letting androids see…everything.” Hank gestures at his entire body as if that clarified everything. Hank is fairly certain Connor is being obtuse on purpose.

“I assure you, Hank, I can identify all parts of your anatomy when I perform a scan.” He says it with a straight face, but Hank can see the smirk trying to remain hidden in his eyes. Hank doesn’t want to argue the fact and tells Connor never to scan him again. In response, Connor goes stock-still and clearly performs a scan.

“Ok, Hank.”

Hank reflexively throws his hands over his crotch before remembering he doesn’t believe the android anyway. Then he huffs and flops gracelessly onto the couch. Despite his gruff exterior, he feels warmth wrap around and up his spine.

Connor _wants_ to scan him, to see him.


	2. Make it Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know what you want, Hank. I’ve known it for quite some time. But, you see, we have another matter to resolve.” Hank blinks, bewildered.
> 
> “The fuck?” It was all his brain could produce. There was too much happening at once, too much information to absorb. Connor and his affections. Connor and his hand in Hank’s hair. Connor and his chest pressed against Hank’s back.
> 
> “You’ve explained to an adequate degree what upset you this morning and set you off in the car.” Hank feels wary, his brain too slow to process what his subconscious knows is coming. Connor lowers his mouth to Hank’s neck as if he is going to kiss it.
> 
> He feels Connor’s simulated breath dance across his skin, “Apologize.”

The days faded into weeks and Hank became less prone to embarrassing questions and comments. He was learning how to navigate around Connor in his home. It was a delicate balance of being friendly while distant. He could feel the frayed edges of his heart reaching out to wrap around words, trying to draw more meaning from them than he should.

_I like staying here, Hank._

Hank squashes down the warm tendrils extending outward to latch onto Connor’s latest quiet admission with a swig of beer. He cracks open his fifth. This earns a disapproving glance from the android. Is he irritated with the lack of response or the alcohol consumption? Hank’s heart lurches at the former, reading into an impossible reality.

 _Just ask him why_ the traitor operating his brain urges. With a brief shake of his head, Hank wonders how advisable it is to be drunk around Connor. He hasn’t said or done anything mortifying in quite some time and he was impressed with himself. He could be _friends_ with Connor and it could be enough. To have him near, to have him tut at dishes left in the sink, to practically hear his eyes roll when Hank asks to grab dinner at the Chicken Feed or some other equally unhealthy establishment.

It could be enough, this delicate friendship he hasn’t managed to maim yet.

But the alcohol he’s been steadily consuming throttles his battered heart.

_He will leave you._

Hank pulls a bitter face at this. He’s used to this version of himself. Connor helps keep it at bay, but alcohol has a way of waking up the beast that lives in the pit of his stomach. The self-doubt, the self-hate. _Old, washed up, half rate_ —these are the kinder thoughts that the creature within can conjure up. It will move onto darker depths and tug at the crux of his insecurities: _worthless, unlovable, unfit father, it’s your fault your son is dead—_

It takes a surprisingly short span of time for the worst version of Hank to assert himself. He’s going to say something cruel, he can feel it. He wants someone to hurt as badly as he does and Connor is the only other person in the room.

Hank pries his jaw open, ready to unleash venom when gentle fingers ghost over his.

“I think you’ve had enough, Lieutenant.” It’s the use of his rank that startles him out of his angry reverie. Connor pulls the bottle from his grip, gentle but firm. Unyielding, but not unkind. Hank feels his head drop and watches tears fall to his now empty hand. When had he started crying?

Connor’s hands are on him—lifting, guiding—and then they are stumbling across the threshold of his room. Connor’s never been in this room before, and, even in his drunken and addled state, Hank is horrifyingly aware as to why. Connor, in Hank’s clothes, in Hank’s room. He feels panic grip at his innards and twist.

Hank can’t see how his face pales or sense how his blood pressure drops. Connor must realize what’s about to happen even if Hank does not. Connor is suddenly all action, assertive and assured of his correct interpretation of events. He’s dragging Hank back into the hall, getting him to the toilet in time to empty his stomach.

 _He doesn’t know_ , Hank feels a sigh of relief building beneath the slow churn of his stomach. Never in his life has he been happier at the need to vomit. Connor doesn’t know; Connor will stay. Hank is aware of one of Connor’s hands pulling his hair back while the other strokes down his spine. He hears Connor emit little shushing sounds and he’s disturbed to realize he’s sobbing into the porcelain bowl.

Yes, Hank thinks for the dozenth time, emotions are overrated.

He awakes the next morning to a disarmingly quiet house. He can usually hear Connor making breakfast, cleaning, or whizzing that stupid coin around when he thinks Hank can’t hear it. Now, there is silence. Now, there is confusion with fear swift on its heels.

Memories of the night before trickle in slowly. He wasn’t blackout drunk, not with four beers and a single swallow of a fifth. He was, however, not feeling fantastic. He hadn’t eaten dinner, and the headache consumed much of his attention. He scrubbed a large hand over his face as the evening came into sharper focus. He had cried like a blithering moron because Connor told him he liked staying here. He was on the verge of ruining the only friendship he’d had in years because Connor had been _nice_ to him.

Well, this was a new low. It was all well and good that no one liked him when he wanted it that way. It was another thing entirely to piss away the only relationship that had made him happy in years.

 _Relationship_ , his brain snarls into the morning. It sneers at him. Friendship, then, he settles on the term with his mind.

Which brought him back to his most pressing question—Where is Connor? He remembered crying, vomiting, crying some more, and then Connor helping him to his room. In truth, he wasn’t all that drunk, but he allowed himself the indulgence. He felt Connor’s strength and sagged into him. Connor was an unyielding wall, incapable of staggering under Hank’s weight. Hank reveled at that. He allowed the brief happy moment of the entire miserable evening to thrum through his body.

Hank, with his towering height and large build, was always the one doing the carrying. If he went out, back when going out was something he did, he was the one making sure people got back home to their beds safe and sound. There was something nice about being on the receiving end. He took advantage of Connor’s strength anytime he drank—pretended he needed help to have an excuse for Connor’s touch.

The warm glow of it couldn’t last. He pushes himself to his feet and goes to look for Connor. His house isn’t large and it doesn’t take him long to surmise what he already suspected: Connor was gone.

Anxiety began to gnaw at him, creating scenario after scenario of what happened. Connor had had enough, Connor didn’t want to take care of a self-destructive old man anymore, Connor was leaving him as assuredly as everyone else left him—

The door banging open startles Hank out of his panic. Sumo all but drags Connor in his haste to get to Hank.

 _I am an idiot_ stamps itself across Hank’s brain. Of course, the dog. Sumo has to do his business just like every other living creature. He hadn’t noticed the dog’s absence, he was too caught up in his own anxieties.

“Good morning, Hank. I took the liberty to call into work to let them know we would be late.”

Hank groans, “Fowler is going to kill me.” But something of Connor’s expression catches his attention. Hank may be having a shit morning, but he’s a good cop. He narrows his eyes slightly, wondering what Connor’s really been up to all morning. At his expression, Connor drops the pretense.

“I told him we were following a lead. Undercover.” There is a hint of a smile tugging at Connor’s mouth, but Hank isn’t getting the joke.

“Under _cover_ ,” he repeats with a new emphasis. The moment lingers uncomfortably until Connor finally huffs, “It was the only thing I could think of that wasn’t a blatant lie. You _were_ under covers. I didn’t want to outright say you were still in bed.” Hank is uncertain if Connor is being serious. Then he remembers that the android has a hard time with jokes in general so, of course, he’s being serious.

“You could’ve just woke me up, Connor.” He shakes his head in a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“You seemed unwell. I wanted to let you rest.” There it was, as always: Connor’s constant care for him. It was infuriating and wonderful and if he thought about it too hard he was going to blush. Hank grunts his thanks before turning to the kitchen for some coffee. The pot is already full and Hank lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You don’t have to do all these things every day, you know? I mean, I appreciate it, but I can make my own fucking coffee.” He’s not sure why he’s doing this. Why he can’t just accept someone being nice to him. He snaps his mouth shut before more gruff words can come tumbling out of it.

Connor tilts his head, considering him, “I have my doubts.” Hank does a slow turn, eyebrows raised. Connor plows on, as usual, “You usually burn coffee beyond the range of palatable.” He gives Hank a good-natured grin before turning on his heel. He looks back slightly, calling back, “There are travel mugs in the cabinet. I’ll meet you in the car. We have thirty minutes remaining until Captain Fowler will demand we check in with him.”

Hank sighs and pulls out the mentioned mug. _Resigned_ , he decides, _I am resigned to follow the whims of this android_. The thought rankles, but a pleased tug at the corner of his mouth betrays him.

The happy feeling lasted until he backed out of the driveway.

Of course, Connor was not going to let last night go. He never let anything about Hank’s emotions go, which promised the car ride to the station was going to be a long one. Hank’s not sure why he didn’t expect it. Connor usually launched his attempts at deciphering Hank’s behavior when Hank was driving. Hank had a sneaking suspicion it was because he couldn’t jump from his own vehicle while barreling down the highway.

“You seemed rather upset last night, Hank. I am under the impression it was because of what I said. If the situation is no longer to your liking, I can make alternate arrangements.” Hank sneaks a glance at Connor, but the android is looking him full in the face. Fuck.

“No.” This is not enough of an answer for Connor, and Hank knows it. But fuck if he was going to make it easy to draw out a confession of any sort. Connor makes a non-committal hum before the silence stretches into something unpleasant that settles around Hank’s shoulders. The weight of it makes his shoulders hunch.

“Hank.” Hank ignores the unasked question for more information. Connor continues, undeterred, “I do not enjoy your discomfort. I want—,” To hell with whatever the android wants.

“You do so.” Hank spits it out meanly. Connor stops speaking, his LED a slow spinning yellow. Hank lumbers on, his need to be cruel from the night before returning full force. _Atta boy, Hank. Here’s the real you_ , “My _comfort_ ,” he mimics in a vicious tone, “You come into my home—,”

“You invited me to your home.”

“You take over my kitchen—,”

“Hank, you had no food.”

“You think you know me, what’s best for me, because you, what? You _scan_ me from time to time? What’s it tell you, _Connor_?” He says his name like a malediction. Connor doesn’t flinch, but his LED blinks a rapid red before circling back to yellow. “Yeah,” Hank laughs meanly while he says it, “Connor, the perfect fucking android sent to take care of the alcoholic, washed up Lieutenant. A fucking robo-cop.” Hank punctuates the word with a hard shift as he pulls up to the station and puts his car in park.

Something twitches in Connor’s jaw, a distinctly human reaction. It takes Hank by surprise. “I wasn’t sent to take care of you, Lieutenant,” Connor’s tone doesn’t match Hank’s bitterness; it’s far more quiet and terrifying, “I was sent to assist you, something you’ve been loath to let me do from the start. I may be a _robo-cop_ ,” Hank’s conscience already prickles at him. Despite his rage, severely misplaced and ill-timed, he is well aware he crossed a line, “but at least I attempt to do my job.”

Hank’s brain is screaming at him to fix it. Say something, say anything—but with each step Connor takes from Hank’s car, his mouth crumples further into a ragged line of misery.

His anger fled him as the clipped sound of Connor’s shoes faded, walking away from Hank, leaving him behind in the car. Fear writhed upon itself and flared behind his lungs. It took up too much space; he couldn’t breathe. By the time he got his gasping under control, the moment for a frenzied chase and apologies had passed.

The rest of the day dragged on slow as sap. The first blow came with a simple visual: Connor sitting at his desk, across from Hank’s, working. There was nothing unusual about it except there was a rigidity about him now, reminiscent of his behavior pre-deviancy. He was waiting for orders; there would be no familiar banter.

Hank isn’t a stupid man, but he had hoped to be able to convince Connor to come speak with him in private. The ramrod straightness of Connor’s spine, his curt responses to anyone who spoke to him, forbade the attempt. Connor couldn’t possibly understand what Hank was truly upset about. It wasn’t Connor’s fault that Hank handled his emotions like a grenade with a pulled pin, hurling them at people when least expected. He desperately wants to make it right. As familiar as Hank is with wanting, he’s closer bedfellows with desperation.

Hank isn’t a stupid man, but he can be a world class idiot when he wants to be.

Gavin Reed, police station prick and asshole extraordinaire, picked up on the tension after a few hours, “Lovers quarrel?” he calls loudly across his desk, the snickering sound of it coating Hank’s ears, making them itch. Connor’s head jerks to the left, considering Reed before returning his blank gaze back to his computer screen. An unworthy adversary. He’d handed Reed’s ass to him in the past and could do it again with ease. Hank knows Connor won’t engage.

“Fuck off, Reed.” Hank knows he should let it go, but his aggression, misery, and doubt have to go somewhere. Might as well punch it into Reed’s smug face. Gavin took the bait with laughable ease. Pride still wounded from his fight with Connor, he strides toward Hank with feigned tranquility.

“Really, Anderson. Fucking the fed’s robot? Seems low, even for you.” In his peripheral, Hank can see Connor go stock still at the accusation. Hank knows Gavin is trying to dig at him and Connor both at the same time and he’d made his mark. Connor, just a machine. Hank, just a dirty old android fucker.

Hank was never one for words, and he let his fists fly the second Gavin finished the word _you_. Hank may be older and out of shape, but he’s huge. Taller than Gavin, heavier, and much, much angrier. The fight doesn’t last long. By the time Fowler and Connor intervened, Gavin was sporting a bloodied nose and a swelling eye. Hank was left with a split lip.

He is dimly aware of Connor’s hands restraining him by the biceps, the need to hold him back long-passed. Fowler had been screaming for several minutes, but Connor’s fingertips tensing around his arm sent a buzz through Hank’s ears, drowning the Captain’s voice. By the end, Fowler relieved both Hank and Gavin and sent them home.

“I don’t want to see your sorry faces for the next 48 hours, you hear me?” Fowler’s rage had begun to subside. He gives Hank a long and unreadable look. Hank wonders if Fowler remembers they used to be friends.

“Connor.” Fowler snaps. It wasn’t a question.

Connor’s grip on Hank’s arms tightens almost painfully before he seems to think better of touching the man. He drops his hands, “Yes, Captain?”

“Take him home.” Connor nods. Hank isn’t sure if this is a further punishment or a reprieve.

The drive back is silent. No radio, no speaking. With no sound to fill the space in Hank’s brain, he begins to chase his thoughts, whirling like smoke in his head. He can’t latch onto any one coherent option.

 _Tell him the truth._ Absolutely not.

 _End it; make him leave. It’s kinder to him._ I can’t.

Flailing between these two impossible options, a third darker option flits in the background.

_End it._

The image of his gun floats unbidden behind his irises and he curls into himself against the thought. No, that is no longer an option. He isn’t going to run. He also has no idea what he is going to do.

Connor isn’t paying him the least bit of attention, but he can always tell when Hank is upset. Fucking heart rate betrays him every time. Either Connor was choosing not to comment to spare Hank’s feelings or he did not care, Hank couldn’t be sure. He wants Connor to speak, to give him a hint of which direction to take, but he remains resolutely quiet.

They pull up to Hank’s house, but Connor does not follow him when Hank exits the car. In all the time he’s known him, he has never seen Connor hesitate like this. It burns at the back of Hank’s throat. He can feel the rejection building. Connor will not stay. Connor will leave. He will be alone.

Hank turns on his heel and marches into his house, straight to the cabinet holding the long untouched whiskey. Beer was one thing; for Hank, whiskey was quite another. By the time Connor crosses the threshold and quietly shuts the door, Hank is three shots deep. He will _not_ look at Connor. He will _not_ cry in front of him again.

Connor reaches out a tentative hand and brushes it across Hank’s forearm, “Hank?” It is a question and not a harsh one, but it solidifies all of Hank’s fears. Connor was using the tone he adopted for the family of victims. It was the voice he used before delivering unwanted news.

Hank’s wretchedness transforms into outrage; he lashes out at Connor, fury propelling him forward. So much for self-control.

For his part, Connor did not appear to expect it. In all of his pre-constructions, _Hank will attack me_ did not seem to be a likely outcome. Then again, he was missing several pieces of information regarding Hank’s mental state to create an accurate portrayal of the situation.

It does not take long for the inevitable to happen. Hank throws a punch that Connor easily deflects.

“Hank, please—,” Hank growls and lunges, and, again, Connor parries the blow. Connor tries to appeal to Hank once more, but it goes ignored. When Hank rears back to try to hit him again, he sees an exasperated look flash across Connor’s face.

Hank knows Connor is stronger than he is and that he’s outlived his moment of shock. Connor, it appeared, was done fucking around. In a fluid motion, he spins Hank like a doll, linking one of his arms through both of Hank’s, pinning them behind him. With his back flush to Connor’s chest, with the exception of his arms pressed uncomfortably between them, primal instincts to flee take over his brain.

He struggles in a useless attempt to free his arms before attempting to kick back into Connor’s crotch. Too late, he remembers, that Connor isn’t a normal man. Hank has no idea if the freaks at Cyberlife had given Connor a dick (they had never gotten that far in their blush-inducing discussions about androids), but he very much doubts it would hurt if Hank took a kick at it.

Nevertheless, Connor does not take kindly to Hank’s kicking. He walks backward until his legs hit the couch and yanks Hank down with him, pushing him into a slouch. His brain firing off frantic messages to run scramble his thoughts. He feels Connor’s legs snake between his own and wrap around them, pinning him into place.

Connor is still attempting to talk to him; Hank can hear it in some sluggish part of his brain not consumed by the urge to get as far away from this situation as fast as possible.

“Hank, stop it, I want to talk to you—,” Hank has no desire to talk about any of this. Adrenaline courses through him and he takes advantage of the only weapon left to him. He jerks his head forward and attempts to slam it back into Connor’s face.

He feels Connor’s fingers slide along his scalp with the hand not pinning Hank’s arms in place. Hank’s head isn’t even within a foot of doing damage before Connor’s grip tightens slightly and yanks Hank’s head back.

“Now,” Connor’s artificial breath came out hot against Hank’s ear, overheated, “We are going to talk. If you are going to have the adult equivalent of a tantrum the entire time, I’m not going to let you go.”

Hank snarls and struggles uselessly. If Connor doesn’t want to let go, Hank isn’t going to be able to do much about it.

“Have it your way, but we are going to talk. You’re going to tell me why you find it so upsetting that I enjoy living here. You’re going to tell me why it made you go berserk in the car. And then, you’re going to apologize for being insufferably rude and calling me names.” On the last sentence, Connor’s voice lilts upward, almost as if he is embarrassed.

When Hank remains silent, Connor gives him a slight shake, sending tremors down his body. “I am waiting, Lieutenant. I promise you, I can remain in this position for the next 48 hours with zero discomfort. I cannot say the same for you.” Hank jerks painfully at that statement.

“The fuck are you talking abo—,” The words stop abruptly. He can feel Connor’s smirk next to his face. Fowler had sent him away for 48 hours. No one would come looking for Hank. Not that he is particularly afraid that Connor will hurt him, but he has no desire to spend the next two days in a full body bind, back to chest with Connor.

 _Yes, you do_ the voice whispers maliciously at him and Hank feels his face go hot.

“I have to eat…,” he protests weakly.

Connor had lowered his head closer to Hank’s ear at some point. When he speaks, Hank flinches slightly at the proximity, “I am more than capable of frog-marching you around and feeding you without releasing you.” Hank feels some of the fight leave him.

He also feels like a god damned maiden in distress. He takes several unnecessary swallows before hanging his head and turning it away as far as Connor’s grip in his hair will allow. He doesn’t want to look at Connor or feel his expressions so close to his face.

“I’m not upset,” Hank says grumpily. Connor snorts in an undignified and highly un-android-like manner. Hank continues, “I’m not upset that you like living here.” Connor is silent at first, processing. Hank can see the LED in the reflection of his TV. 

“Then what has you so upset?” He asks it quietly with a gentler tone than he’s been using much of the day.

Hank lets out a noise somewhere between a sob and a hysterical laugh, “You’re going to leave.” It’s a bitter admission, pulled from him against his will. Even so, Hank can feel the poison of the thought draining out of him at the confession.

“Why would I leave you?” Connor asks. The question catches Hank off guard. He licks his lips, thinking. Hank has his answer ready, but Connor’s tone is asking a different question than his words. He sounds hurt, and Hank can’t figure out what it is that Connor really wants to know.

“Kid, I didn’t invite you to stay over because I’m a nice guy.” Hank feels Connor’s chest stutter as if he’s trying to contain a laugh, “It’s not funny!” Hank grouses and tries to shift against the iron grip holding him in place, but he doesn’t gain much ground for his efforts.

“I know, I know. It’s not,” Connor agrees, using a soothing tone Hank knows well. It’s the voice he adopts before dropping bombshell evidence on a suspect that he’s lulled into a false sense of security. Hank’s heart begins to pound in his chest, a flush creeping up his neck threatening to engulf his face. He is painfully aware that he is at Connor’s mercy, and his body is trying every way it knows to betray him.

“Is something the matter Hank?” Connor’s mouth is too close to his ear. He cannot think, “Your heart rate indicates that you are in distress.”

“I’m not in distress.” He blurts it out too fast for his pride. He is becoming increasingly aware of the tightness in the crotch of his pants. Connor is too close, touching too much of him, and his heart is about to leap out of his chest if he doesn’t get away from him right fucking now.

“I’ve been analyzing you for a while now, Hank. You lean into my touch. You seek it out. You find excuses to touch _me_. And, at my first attempt to solidify my findings, you had a meltdown of epic proportions. Really, does my enjoyment of your company terrify you that badly?” Hank’s chest hurts from his heart’s constant pounding against his ribcage and his ears are on fire with the roar of blood pulsing through them. He tongue feels heavy and dumb in his mouth, unable to produce words.

Connor seems to consider him for a moment before continuing, “What scares you more, Hank: That I may not return your affections or that I harbor feelings for you as well?” Hank’s body sags briefly into Connor before redoubling his futile efforts to escape the android’s grip.

Connor allows him a moment of struggle before speaking, “I’m waiting, Hank.” It was soft but firm and demanded an answer. An undignified sound that was definitely _not_ a whimper escapes Hank’s chest. His brain is screaming at him _tell him tell him tell him_ while his dick is straining against his zipper demanding a response of any kind so he doesn’t remain stuck like this.

“You couldn’t possibly care for me like that, kid. No way in hell.” Hank hears himself say the words, but he isn’t quite sure they truly came from him. He can almost see the small frown on Connor’s face.

“But I do.” Any air Hank had left in his chest fled him. He tries to turn to see Connor’s face, but the grip in his hair only tightened. Hank struggles again, but Connor’s hold on him is firm and unbending.

“I want—,” Connor cut Hank off, seemingly uncaring about the man’s wants at that moment. He is on a mission, and not much can get in his way when he is close to completion.

“I know what you want, Hank. I’ve known it for quite some time. But, you see, we have another matter to resolve.” Hank blinks, bewildered.

“The fuck?” It was all his brain could produce. There was too much happening at once, too much information to absorb. Connor and his affections. Connor and his hand in Hank’s hair. Connor and his chest pressed against Hank’s back.

“You’ve explained to an adequate degree what upset you this morning and set you off in the car.” Hank feels wary, his brain too slow to process what his subconscious knows is coming. Connor lowers his mouth to Hank’s neck as if he is going to kiss it.

He feels Connor’s simulated breath dance across his skin, “Apologize.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is not enough bottom Hank so I crawled out of my cave to rectify it.


	3. Lay it Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That,” Hank finally manages, “is not helping.” Connor exhales a small laugh through his nose. Aching desire pulses through Hank’s body. 
> 
> “My apologies, Hank. I was trying to assist you.” He pauses a beat before adding, “See how easy it is to apologize?”
> 
> \---
> 
> In case the tags weren't enough of a warning, now is the time to review them.

In the moment of silence that follows, Hank is certain the world has gone mad or this is some kind of insane dream. Connor’s synthetic fingernails lightly grazing his scalp jerks him back into reality.

“What.” It isn’t a question, but a meager attempt to buy himself more time. Time to adjust to whatever the hell is happening in his living room at this moment. He feels Connor’s smile, knows he is amused in the way his chest expands slightly against Hank’s back.

“An apology, Hank. For your rudeness.” Ah, that. In his panicked state of _flee, flee, flee_ , he’d forgotten Connor’s demands for an explanation and an apology. Hank cringes at the memory of earlier in the day.

“I didn’t mean it.” He says it and feels its inadequacy roll off his tongue as it leaves his mouth. As expected, Connor isn’t accepting that as an expression of regret. He _tuts_ as if Hank has left dirty clothes next to his hamper rather than putting them in it. The image is wildly out of place with his current situation and Hank feels hysterical laughter threatening to consume him.

Connor’s nose nudging along the backside of his ear grounds him; the urge to giggle like a fool is rapidly replaced by languid heat creeping up his thighs and settling between his legs.

Connor whispers, “Try again,” so softly that Hank almost misses it over the hammering of his own heart.

He lets out a quiet, “Fuuuuck,” of his own; Connor responds with a pleased _hmm_. The sensation of it reverberates down Hank’s back. If Connor’s restriction of his body wasn’t so complete, he would’ve arched his spine. He settles for a shiver.

“I’m disappointed, Hank.” Connor’s words do not match his tone. He sounds highly pleased with himself, and he continues on uninterrupted, “I expected such slurs from Gavin Reed, but not from you. Not anymore.” Hank feels shame lick at his insides, making him squirm.

It was true. He hadn’t referred to Connor in a degrading way in months, even before the revolution. Hank valued Connor’s opinion, he needed his friendship, and, apparently, he was greedy for his touch. Connor knew all this despite Hank’s best efforts to conceal his wholly inappropriate and growing attraction.

The massive bulge in his pants probably isn’t helping conceal Hank’s feelings either.

Despite Connor’s words, doubt lingers in Hank’s mind. He is old, his body is soft, and he is an emotional wreck.

_Connor is still here._

For once in his life, the voice piloting his mind has a gentle thought to share. Even so, he remains silent. Hank has never been one to improve a situation with his words. He’s always been a man of action, but Connor’s complete control of his limbs makes that impossible.

 _How very Connor_ , Hank thinks to himself. Connor always made Hank explain himself. When Hank wanted to hide or run from something, Connor always pushed back and made Hank say aloud what was lurking in his head. However, admitting that he wanted to learn more about androids, about Connor, and discussing it was entirely different from his current situation. Hank has never been on the receiving end of a displeased Connor, but it would seem his gentle and persistent nature carried over to it.

It was maddening.

Fight fucking Hank can handle; talking about his transgressions and asking for forgiveness is unfamiliar territory. Hank knows full well that Connor isn’t going to let the situation go, much less let go of Hank, until he is satisfied.

“M’sry.” Hank finally mumbles, feeling his entire body blaze with embarrassment. Hank is significantly bigger than Connor, but Connor possesses android strength. Hank would say it’s humiliating to be restrained like this and forced to apologize for being an asshole, but the throbbing need in his jeans suggests otherwise.

“That didn’t sound very sincere, Hank.” A needy groan escapes Hank’s lips, unbidden, “Perhaps you need some motivation?” Before Hank can so much as think _what the fuck does that mean?_ Connor’s mouth is on his throat. Hank feels Connor’s tongue glide smoothly up the side of his neck, taut from where Connor’s grip is angling him away slightly.

“That,” Hank finally manages, “is not helping.” Connor exhales a small laugh through his nose. Aching desire pulses through Hank’s body.

“My apologies, Hank. I was trying to assist you.” He pauses a beat before adding, “See how easy it is to apologize?”

Hank snorts with derision he doesn’t actually feel, “You don’t sound so sincere yourself, kid.” Connor lets out a slight and entirely unnecessary sigh. His fingers slackened in Hank’s hair, opting to ghost down and around Hank’s neck instead. Connor’s palm rests at the base of Hank’s throat. Hank’s sure Connor can feel his heartbeat singing through his skin at this new touch.

Hank lets out a quiet, “Christ,” at the slight flex of Connor’s hand. He makes a disgruntled noise when Connor breaks the contact.

“Apologize, Hank.” Irritation mounting at not being able to move and instinct to be obstinate coalesce into something immature and self-destructive. Hank attempts to make use of his freshly released head to slam back into Connor, to shift his situation to more familiar territory, but Connor simply laces his fingers back into the strands, “Oh, no. There will be none of that.”

Connor is not harsh. Never once, in the time that Hank has known him, has Connor been harsh. He is, however, persistent and forceful. And, above all else, he always gets his way when it comes to Hank’s wellbeing. Apparently, apologizing fell into that category. Hank’s body droops in realization; Connor releases his hair once more.

 _Just say you’re sorry and sound like you mean it, you dumb shit_ Hank berates himself inside his head. His tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth. Before he can work on unsticking it, Connor’s hand is on Hank’s throat again. It drifts downward to play with the top button of his work shirt. He pauses and it’s a question. When Hank doesn’t tell him to stop, Connor’s hand begins to move again. Hank sucks in a breath when he feels the button give and Connor’s hand moves onto the next, and then the next.

The living room air hits Hank’s bared chest and he shivers. He feels Connor’s body increasing in temperature behind him and the contrasting sensations feel nice. Connor’s warmed hand is tracing indecipherable patterns, passing over scars and tattoos.

And still, Connor’s hand dips lower. Feeling more than a moderate amount of embarrassment at panting like a virginal girl being felt up for the first time, Hank all but whines when Connor’s hand stops at his belt.

“Apologize.” It’s a soft and warm command teetering on the edge of a promise. Connor’s fingers flutter lightly over Hank’s belt buckle, underscoring his intentions. _Apologize_ and Connor keeps going; _stay silent_ and the torment continues.

The ball is entirely in Hank’s court and he knows it; Connor has given him authority over his next move. Every inch of his being is screaming at him to say sorry, to beg if necessary, because Connor’s hand is everything, but some part of him hesitates.

“I see,” is all Connor says, and, for one horrified moment, Hank thinks he’s made a significant mistake because Connor’s hand leaves his belt. Hank tries to make a frantic movement to bring it back, but Connor’s hold on his arms prevents him from doing much other than painfully tugging his shoulders. Connor laughs and Hank lets out a breath of air he wasn’t aware he had been holding.

Connor’s hand resumes his unhurried exploration of Hank, starting on his left thigh as far as he can reach in their current position. As his hand travels along the seam, Hank’s heart rate picks up speed. He can feel it hammer away inside his chest, captivated by Connor’s fingers sweeping ever closer to the straining swell in Hank’s pants that demands attention.

He feels the first feather light touch tracing the edge of his dick still trapped under a layer of denim and groans far louder than his pride would normally allow. He tries to thrust weakly in the direction of Connor’s hand, seeking any friction he can find. Connor’s rigid hold on his arms and refusal to give Hank what he wants without an apology first thwarts any further contact.

“ _Please_ ,” it escapes Hank’s mouth against his will and mortification paints his body like a personal masterpiece.

“Apologize.” Connor says it sweetly and Hank can hear the smile in his voice. Connor’s hand resumes its careful tracing, maddeningly soft. Not nearly enough and far too much, threatening to break Hank apart into a thousand shuddering pieces.

Hank had flopped his head against Connor’s shoulder at some point during his torturous study of Hank’s body. Connor’s teeth grazing his neck proves to be his downfall.

“I’m sorry!” It bursts out of Hank like a champagne cork that has spent too long straining against a muselet, “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ ,” he feels like he is on the verge of tears. A wash of emotions floods his body; embarrassment, desire, and relief battle for his attention.

He expects Connor to release him, to touch him, to do _something_ , but his grip remains locked around Hank’s arms while his other hand remains frozen, “Connor, _please_.” Hank can feel Connor smiling into his neck.

“Please what, Hank?” Hank groans at the coy retort.

“Touch me.” Hank says it directly and with as much dignity as he can muster.

Connor laughs softly, “I am touching you,” but his hand resumes its slow trek canvassing Hank’s jeans, still avoiding the source of his frustration.

Need is making it impossible for Hank to have coherent thoughts much less carry on polite conversations about stroking his dick. He grunts out a simple, “More.” He expects further banter, more back and forth, but Connor relents.

Hank doesn’t try to stop the sound that crosses his lips when Connor unbuckles and unzips his jeans. He tries another futile attempt at thrusting into Connor’s hand, pursuing contact in any way he can. Connor palms him through the fabric of his underwear before finally pulling his dick free, dragging a hiss from Hank’s body from the prolonged lack of attention.

Too soon, Connor’s hand is moving away and upward, caressing Hank’s stomach. He resists the urge to suck in. Connor’s seen him already, there isn’t much more of him to hide, and, based on his exploration of Hank’s body, he likes it. Connor’s hand continues up, resting on Hank’s throat. Confusion and frustration war on Hank’s face and his makes a sound of protest.

Connor taps Hank’s lips with his fingers. When he does it again, Hank opens his mouth in confusion, ready to voice a question. Connor presses forward gently, and Hank understands. He begins to suck on Connor’s slender fingers while Connor brings his mouth back to Hank’s neck. With an abrupt pop, Connor pulls free.

Brown and blue eyes both watch the slick digits return to Hank’s dick. The moment Connor’s hand wraps around its base, Hank tries to pitch forward. With a sharp jerk, Connor pulls Hank’s back flush to his chest.

“I want to see.” He says it simply by way of explanation and Hank groans. Connor’s hand sets a brutal pace. Hank can feel him watching intently, cataloging what makes Hank shake, what makes him moan. Even without the absurd processing power, Hank would be hard pressed to last long after the protracted afternoon he’s had.

“ _Connor_.” Hank’s voice is higher pitched than normal. Connor hums noncommittally, enthralled by what he’s watching, “Connor!” Hank repeats it with more urgency. Hank can feel warm brown eyes on his face, “I’m going to—,” Connor’s hand slows noticeably.

“No.” Connor’s tone makes it clear it is not a request. A fierce shot of longing rips through Hank’s body, pulling a sound from deep within his chest. It makes Connor smile as he continues with his lazy, slow strokes.

“You’re a…vindictive little shit…when you want to be.” It’s a struggle to get out the words. Hank closes his eyes in concentration, trying desperately to hold on while his body screams to let go.

“Open your eyes, Hank. I want you to see.” Blue eyes fly open, pupils blown wide, watching. Connor’s hand glides the length of Hank’s dick and stops at the top, swirling at the glistening tip. He pulls his hand away, spreading his fingers wide to watch Hank’s precum stretch between them.

Hank can see Connor drawing his hand to his face and groans when he realizes what he’s about to do. For as long as he’s known the android, he’s had a penchant for sticking things in his mouth. Before Hank can comment on it, Connor’s hand is back on his dick, continuing his torturous pace.

“I like to see your reactions to things. I like it most when you blush.” At that statement, blood suffuses Hank’s face, pulling a contented sound from Connor, “Like that, yes.” For Hank, it explains a lot. He has a sneaking suspicion that Connor made every single one of their awkward and embarrassing conversations much more uncomfortable than they needed to be. Just to see him _blush_ , fucking hell.

Hank makes a sound bordering on a whine, “ _Connor_ ,” he’s begged more than once tonight and he’s not sure he will be able to live with himself if he does it again. He hopes his tone is enough.

But all he gets from Connor is a quiet, “Not yet.”

What Connor is waiting for, Hank can’t hazard to guess. The primal need for release is thrumming through his body, making him shake. Connor seems hell-bent on making Hank fall apart, touching and caressing and prodding at every part of him, seeking answers to private questions. Hank isn’t sure if Connor will ever announce himself satisfied, and the thought of this continuing much longer makes his chest hurt.

Connors fingers at his mouth again pulls Hank out of his daze. The silent request for more lubrication transforms his harsh breathing into ragged, desperate panting. _Please._ He isn’t sure if he thinks it or says it aloud, but Connor finally fulfills his desire for more.

His grip, after what felt like hours of learning Hank’s preferences, is firm and sure of itself. He knows that Hank prefers long strokes that increase in tightness near the tip, not fully encompassing the head. He knows that Hank prefers varied speeds rather than one monotonous pace. He is certain that Connor knows everything _Hank_ and is applying all of his knowledge toward this culminating act. Hank feels himself teetering on the verge of release when Connor murmurs against his ear, “I want to see you come, Lieutenant.”

His orgasm rips through him, Connor’s hand working him into a frenzy. Connor’s expectations of Hank’s release are no less thorough than his previous demands for Hank to apologize. His hand slows but doesn’t let go, pulling everything he can from Hank, extracting all that Hank can give. Just when overstimulation threatens to surpass pleasure, Connor slackens his grip.

Feeling the liberation of his entire body, Hank pulls his arms out from behind him and collapses fully against Connor’s chest. He can’t move much more than that, doesn’t want to, and feels the first wave of exhaustion lap at his body.

He feels Connor wiping at his stomach, pulling him out of sleep’s embrace, “So help me, Connor, if you put that in your mouth—,” Connor silences him with a shushing sound, discarding his personal handkerchief to the floor, now soiled. Hank wants to roll his eyes at the display, Connor cleaning him up after thoroughly wrecking him. Hank rearranges his clothes, making himself decent, but remains where he is.

He can feel Connor’s thirium pump pulsating against his back. It feels nice; Connor feels nice. Before sleep can take him, Hank mumbles, “I am sorry, you know.”

He feels Connor’s arms wrap around him, his voice near his ear, “No,” he says quietly, “You’re forgiven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is not enough bottom Hank so I crawled out of my cave to rectify it. 
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).

**Author's Note:**

> There is not enough bottom Hank so I crawled out of my cave to rectify it.


End file.
